books, buddies and backbone

Peoples, hello. I was waiting for Ms North to put up something on her blog about winning the Kelpies Prize, drumming my fingers, wondering what my small tribe of dearly beloved writer friends have in common, and I think it is that no sooner have they dashed off one fine thing than they are on with the next and attending to the work in progress rather than trumpeting about the one that has just been published, though trumpeting, one feels, is in order.

So yes, she, (a.k.a. Janis Mackay), did win it, and I was there to witness the event which took place in a beautiful building close to the Edinburgh book fair, with wine, crisps, chocolate muffins and sweeties in little dishes – well it was a children's book prize, and it was Scotland. It will be published by Floris at the end of October and it will be lovely – a story about a boy called Magnus Finn who is half selkie. I have always been drawn by the selkie and even wrote a short story myself about one of them. Ms North has written an adventure story. I remember speaking to her on the phone after she had begun it. She was working on another project at the time but something on the beach where she lives caught her attention, she says, and she went home and the story of Magnus began. In her own words about this here. So it goes with creative process. You go hell for leather after one story and then another one comes and pulls at you.

Another long time writer friend I would like to trumpet is Wendy Wallace, whose book Daughter of Dust was published by Simon and Schuster in August. In Wendy's words:

Leila began life in an orphanage where most babies had been abandoned after being born outside marriage. Later, she uncovered the complex story behind her abandonment. She met - and looked after - her mother, and discovered not one father but two. She sang for President Numeiri, and came within a breath of living on the streets...
I met her when in Sudan in 2007 researching a piece for Woman's Hour on the issue of abandonment. In northern Sudan, babies continue to be born to unmarried women, despite the strict Islamic laws. Mygoma orphanage continues to receive abandoned newborns.
Leila's story moved me. I wanted to tell it, and she had always wanted it told. We formed a close friendship and agreed that if we succeeded in finding a publisher, we would split any proceeds.


Most important to Leila is that people in Sudan and elsewhere think again about their attitudes to those without families. The aim of her charity - Sunrise - is to dispel the stigma faced by 'children of sin' and its message is simple. "We are not guilty."


I love this book. I love Wendy's writing. She has a talent for creating mood and place (from which the story unfolds) which catches at the breath. I hope the book grows wings and is read by many. You can find it on Amazon, in Waterstone's or Borders under Biography, or you can order it for the discounted price of £6.50 plus £3.00 p&p (UK 1st class) by contacting Wendy at wendywallace@clara.co.uk


Already mentioned (and on my sidebar), if you haven't already spotted it, is Julie Corbin, whose first book, a thriller called Tell Me No Secrets was the only good reason I found for staying awake into the small hours. An erstwhile student of mine, she came into the classroom and one knew from the outset that she was one of those can write/will write people with both talent and determination.

Three writers, all different, but what they have in common is something I can't really find a satisfying word for: they are dedicated to the business of writing and have given themselves to the work, for the love of it, the doing of it. The success, when and if it comes, is good, but they are busy with the new work – dedicated.

Next post will have something about the life and strivings of Signs. But for the moment, suffice to say that today I fell on the patio, bashed my head and put my back out. But I wrote my thousand words.

Seasonal Greens, and One Bird Flying

Well I’ve taken stock. I can report that there’s not a lot out back, we’re pretty much down to zero and, as you can see, the tired metaphors go on. But what was I thinking of, anyway? I have never stockpiled – never had the wherewithal, just grabbed the essentials in a hand-to-mouth kind of way, much as I am doing now. Think of this as a kind of performance piece – character in action running on (not quite but almost) empty, grabbing a few essentials en route; the essentials in this case being words – any words that, cobbled together, stand for some kind of truth. My truth, that is.

It must be spring. Yes, there is a particular quality to the sun’s warmth, there is a heady scent of blossom in the air and behold, a new wooden patio set from Argos and one’s beloved Mr. Signs has filled the tubs with geranium, mint, something white and bell-shaped and something greenish/red and spiky, and if I do not know the names of things now then I never will. But good though these things are, it is not for these that I say it is spring. I, like countless other PWME, register the change of seasons as does the wretched little potato in the vegetable rack. You know the one – it has a greenish tinge and the life force seems to have gone from it, at any rate you wouldn’t put it in your pot and cook it but spring comes and hey, it puts out sprouts and shoots, kicked into motion at the season’s pleasure. Of course the centre cannot hold and is depleted utterly. And thus sit I with an unremarkable but unspeakably draining throat infection, weak-limbed, cloth-headed and, at this very moment dear reader, drugged to the eyeballs on co-prox because sorry, but I need a break from the muscle thing. PWME looking in? You know the muscle thing.

What else? I’ve sent poems off to a competition and am not holding my breath. The point of the exercise really is to bring a bit of focus in on the work that I have sitting there – like the potato in the rack, I suppose. Poems shouldn’t be left lying around for too long. Looking at everything again I realise that most things need work – much work, and meanwhile I’ve temporarily lost sight of what my next task should be. When I decide what it is I’ll bash on. Writing is work and takes strength, but if you are a writing person, not doing it is infinitely harder work and not doing it hurts.

But apparently I am looking very well. On balance, odd as it is that one does not necessarily manifest the inner condition on the outside, I would rather look well than not. And Daughter of Signs came to stay for a couple of nights. The house was filled with the sound of her singing, her lovely voice, as she accompanied herself on the piano.

*****

And then a lovely thing came. Do you see it? Sitting elegantly on my sidebar to the right - from The Periodic Englishman. Press the button and listen - watch for the bird flying past the window.

There are words too, and applause - and, as they say in Textville - :) :) :)